


i'm not the kind of sick you can fix

by scorpiod



Category: Sharp Objects (TV)
Genre: Bargaining, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, F/F, Fever, Mild Blood, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:55:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29276553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiod/pseuds/scorpiod
Summary: “You have to love only me,” Amma says. “Only me.”“I promise,” Camille swears.
Relationships: Amma Crellin/Camille Preaker
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	i'm not the kind of sick you can fix

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PositivelyVexed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PositivelyVexed/gifts).



Camille doesn’t want to touch Amma afterwards. The sight of her, her light blonde hair, her childish smile, her bright eyes, all make Camille’s stomach squirm, like there are little butterflies in her guts. Or maybe not butterflies, maybe something worse, tearing her insides, like a tapeworm or maggots rotting in her, a slow burn decay. 

When Camille thinks of Amma, she thinks of her teeth; blunt, small, her eyes drawn to them every morning as she eats. She thinks of the dollhouse. The teeth. The hair. Trophies. The deaths of those little girls feel closer to her than most lovers; small little eyes, bright eyes, gaping maws of empty mouths, every night. 

Camille used to breathe in Amma’s shampoo when she hugged her, sweet like cherry blossoms, but now all Camille can taste is the cloying stench of decay on her tongue. She knows she is just imagining it. But she can’t help it, her insides throbbing, words like WRETCHED and ROTTEN screaming at her on her body.

Amma is the murderer, but Camille is the one who feels rotten.

But Amma won’t stop touching her, and Camille is too weak to push her away. Her hands, small but sharp nailed, drag across her skin. Amma leaves a sweaty imprint of her palm like a brand across the small of Camille’s back, on her shoulder, greedy for her scars, for all her private places—like now that Camille knows her secret, Amma must know everything as well.

In a way, it’s like being back with her mother—except despite everything, Amma’s brand of horror feels different. Her possession isn't a mother's clawed grasp; it reaches deeper. 

  
  


*

Camille has the flu. Or something like the flu. She’s hot, feverish, and fatigued, limbs like head as she drags herself to bed. She tells Amma to stay away from her. 

“I don’t want you getting sick,” she says. 

“We can both be sick,” Amma says, following her into the bedroom. “We can take turns taking care of each other. It’ll be fun, like with M—”

“There’s nothing sweet or fun about puking into the toilet together,” Camille cuts her off, not wanting to hear about their mother, and closes her bedroom door in Amma’s face. 

But she still wakes up and finds Amma curled up next to her, clinging, arms wrapped around Camille’s back, refusing to let go. 

Over the last few weeks, Camille loved this. She had high minded fantasies of recovery, of healing, of the two of them, moving past Adora, and finding a new life together. Before Mae. Before the teeth. A new narrative for them both, intertwined vines sprouting from ashes and growing into something new.

Before the rot had set into them both. 

Camille shrugs away, inching her body off the bed and getting up to make coffee with a dash of vodka in it. She’s supposed to stop drinking. She promised Amma, but mostly herself. 

She’s never been good at keeping promises. 

It’s a slow walk to the kitchen, like moving through mental fog, through slow moving molasses. Heat aches down her body, down her spine, burning her insides. Alcohol is just going to make it worse but Camille’s appetite for self-destruction has always been ravenous.

“You hate me,” Amma pouts in the kitchen. Her face is twisted up in a childish pout, but her voice is soft and low, the words falling like the sharp end of a knife. Across the kitchen, Amma eyes Camille like a hawk, or a wolf; intently, and dead behind the eyes. Waiting to strike. 

Camille’s instincts are to console, reassure.  _ Of course not. That’s not true.  _ Even if at this point, she is saying it to prevent a bomb from going off, a live wire from striking out. 

Camille doesn’t hate Amma. She wishes she did; it’d be better that way. Easier. 

“Then hug me,” Amma demands. 

Camille pulls Amma in, wraps her in her arms. Sniffs her hair and smells death on her, sinking into her skin. If her stomach rolls and recoils with pressure and repulsion, well—Camille has always been sick too.

*

Camille is sick, fever warm, shirt sticking to her skin, a halo of heat surrounding her head, pounding, throbbing. She locks her door and doesn’t let anyone in but when she wakes up, Amma is straddling her, legs on either side of her hips as Amma palms at her; hands over her collarbone, hands over her shoulder, a palm on her chest, nails digging into old scars. 

A violent wave of nausea sweeps over Camille, squirming in her guts, as she bats away Amma’s hand. Amma does not pull back. She watches Camille under her, eyes intent, sharp and focused. Camile feels like a small prey animal, squirming. 

"Stop," Camille says, trying to move, to gag over her bed and throw up in a bucket, or on the ground. 

“I got you medicine,” Amma says. High voice. Soft and girlish. Like maybe she is a girl and not a—

Camille stops the thought in her tracks. She doesn’t want to look at Amma, her soft smiles and demanding sweetness, and think of her mother.

“I’m not taking that,” she hisses. 

Amma frowns. “Why do you think I’m trying to hurt you? It’s just pepto.”

Camille glances out of the corner of her eye. Store bought pink stuff on her nightstand, presumably brought to her by Amma. It’s sweet of her. It’s cute of her. Something like guilt sinks into Camille. 

_ Why do I think you’re trying to hurt me? Because you hurt people. You bite them and take their teeth and make little dollhouses out of old parts. It’s sick. We’re sick. _

Camille grabs Amma’s wrist. Despite her fever, her sickness, her weakness, she manages to grip the fragile bones of her wrist tightly, enough to draw a gasp out of her. Her eyes are wide and bright, but not scared. Excited. There's a flush on her cheeks. She's going to get sick too, at this rate. 

It feels like she’s back in the tub with her mother; she’s supposed to take care of Amma, not be the one being taken care of; isn’t that so wrong? She's doing everything all wrong.

“Don’t do it again,” she says, not talking about the medicine. She wants to be stern, firm. Like Adora. But the words are soft and weak as a kitten, shaky. Begging. _ Please don’t kill again.  _

Camille can’t be a mother to Amma. She doesn’t have the grit, the strength. The ability to poison with sweetness, and hold down with words. 

Amma stares down over her, her blond hair more like her mom, more than Camille ever would be, could be. Her eyes narrow and Camille feels a little like a butterfly, pinned down on some pages, wings spread out. Amma reaches down and cups her cheek in her small hand. The gesture is uncomfortably intimate. SICK flares up on her sternum. CHERRY on her thigh.

“You have to love only me,” Amma says, nails digging into her skin. “Only me.”

These are the terms and conditions. 

“I promise,” Camille swears. She swallows hard, a lump in her chest. "I will."

Amma leans down and kisses her. Her mouth tastes sweet and sour; gumball innocence and sour patch kids. Sour watermelon vodka and sticky sugar lollipop. When Amma bites down on Camille’s bottom lip like a claim, Camille tastes sharp iron on her tongue. 

She shivers. 

“You better mean it,” Amma breaks away, panting, breathing hard, a bit of dark red on her lip. “No one else.”

_ No one else, no more murders.  _

Camille licks the blood off her bottom lip. “I do mean it,” she promises.

It’s not the first time Amma kisses her. It won’t be the last.


End file.
